56. Trace
Trace
S he was sitting right beside me, legs crossed, glass in hand. Eyes sparkling with defiance. Her thigh pressed against mine and she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
I nearly put Zeke through a wall forty-eight hours ago, and here she is—sitting next to me as if nothing ever happened. As if I don’t taste her on my tongue every time I close my eyes. As if she wasn’t carved from the exact sin I swore I’d never crave again.
Scarlett fucking Monroe.
She lifted her glass slowly, smirking at Alden, tossing some taunt into the cabin that made him choke. Kane snorted. Even Zeke’s expression twitched at the edges.
But I didn’t laugh.
Too busy watching her.
The way she tilted her head, golden waves tumbling over her shoulder. The way her lip curled in amusement, sharp and devastating. The way she pretends this is all a game, when we both know it’s war.
My hands flexed against my thighs.
She turned to me, slow and deliberate, her eyes sparking with that same wildfire that’s been undoing me for years.
“Try not to start a war at thirty thousand feet,” I muttered, forcing the words through gritted teeth.
She tilted her head, amused. “No promises.”
My hand curled into a fist against my knee. Her perfume something subtle and criminal. Her skin sun-kissed chaos, lips still stained from the last time I lost my mind.
She’s too close.
And she knows it.
I drug my gaze out the window, forcing my breath even. She doesn’t play fair—and I’ve never wanted anything more.
I’m wrecked.
And she hasn’t even touched me.